


Say "Friend," and Enter

by Tammany



Series: The Sussex Downs [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Female Aziraphale (Good Omens), Further meetings, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-01 22:07:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20265265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: Lestrade meets Angel and Crowley. The social mix thickens. Observations are made. It is possible but not yet assured that a bit of foreshadowing is enacted.Again, another bit of the series that started with "Seersucker and Madras."For the record--I do not yet KNOW how John's going to fit in. He insists on being a canon-solid, Creator-endorsed "not-gay" John, though he has not actually shown up yet. He's dating yet again. I have no idea how he's going to end up down in Sussex, though he will. But I thought I would warn you that it does not currently look like Johnlock, but like John & Sherlock: BFFs, but not lovers.John does this to us, though. He just does...





	Say "Friend," and Enter

The night breeze swept in off the ocean, stirring the moorland to sibilance, the high whisper of leaves and twigs blending with the deeper, more distant crash and sigh of the surf.

Greg Lestrade lay in a teak deck chair, lazy and at ease, arms behind his head. His eyes were on the glowing horizon, wind fluttering his white cotton shirt—holiday casual, a number he’d picked up on a holiday to Greece with Mycroft. His thighs and shins were bare, beyond simple drawstring shorts in pale beige. His feet were bare, and the wind tickled his toes…to his amusement. A G&T sat on the slate pavers beside his chair.

Life, he thought, was good.

Lucky Sherlock, moving here for keepsies. He found himself just a bit jealous.

Early retirement would not be that hard to arrange. But—Mycroft would want to move to the primary estate—the one in Buckinghamshire, still near enough London for an easy commute in. The big grey heap: formal gardens, tons of granite neo-gothic, leaded windows. Not this sweetheart of a place by the sea, with the patios and stairs and walks descending down to the cottage Sherlock was taking over, and then down the slope to the crashing sea.

Palm trees. The place even had palm trees! Room for a garden of his own to muck around in, growing veg and dahlias. Fit for walks, more than horseback rides.

He didn’t often feel the differences between himself and Mycroft as obstacles. But…

Oh, this was sweet. And, yes—he envied Sherlock. If Mike would only consider this place, at least part of the year…

It smelled like sea and air and heather and heaven.

Inside he could hear Mycroft and Sherlock snipping at each other—nothing impassioned. Just the comfortable recreational torment they sometimes fell into. Nothing too hateful, nothing too harsh, but God forbid they ever say anything outright nice or fond to one another. He could hear them through the open windows of the sitting room.

“Are John and Rosie moving in with you or not? Is it too much for them to make up their minds?”

“Nope.” Sherlock popped the “p,” apparently determined to act as though he didn’t care.

“I _am _amazed. I would have thought the advantages of the estate would have overcome any resistance Dr. Watson might have had. But, then, he long since got over fear of accepting your largess.”

“Temper-temper. John’s working in private practice again. And he’s courting a woman of independent means.”

It wasn’t clear to Lestrade if Sherlock was actually content with this, or not. The faint trace of acid could have been directed at John, or at the woman of means, or at Mike, and it was anyone’s guess who it might be. Sherlock liked acid, though, so there was that to take into account.

Greg leaned over, snagged the G&T, and took a long sip, feeling it scrape his mouth clean as a new-cut switch.

He cradled the glass against his sternum, feeling the condensation soak into his shirt.

Against the horizon he saw two people moving—silhouettes against the somber glow of night sky.

“Oi,” he called softly. “Who goes there?” He smiled to himself, feeling like someone in a movie.

“Say friend and enter.” There was a smile evident in the reedy tenor voice, even if it was unseen. “Neighbors. A.J. Crowley, and Angel Fell.”

Interesting. Mycroft had told him about the two, before Sherlock had arrived early and with an enormous moving van.

“Come on up. Dinner’s over, dishes are washed, but desert’s not yet touched. I made trifle.”

A woman’s voice squeaked in anticipation. “Trifle?” She paused, and asked with wariness, “Real custard? Real whipped cream?”

“And real jelly made with real juice,” he assured her, as she and her companion stepped into the light from the house beyond. He got to see her face light up…and got to experience the oddest feeling that her smile was brighter than if the entire place had been lit with floodlights. She clapped her hands like a child at a party.

“Oh, that’s scrumptious. I can’t wait!” She looked at him, considering. “And you’ll be the lover, not the brother. Am I right?”

He laughed, almost losing his G&T. “Definitely the lover, not the brother. Greg Lestrade. And you’re Angel?” He smiled—but, then, he thought, who wouldn’t smile at this little ray of sunshine?

He considered her. Mycroft had described her earlier, but she’d changed clothes since afternoon. Not that he wouldn’t have guessed who she was anyway: that tumble of corkscrew curls over the top of her head was unmistakable, as frivolous and appealing as mounds of meringue on a lemon meringue pie. He went over Mike’s earlier description. Middle age, heading toward early old age? Check. Pretty regardless? Check. Sensitive mouth, expressive eyes that showed her age without dimming her beauty. She was dressed in a flowing dress of mid-calf length, of a haunting green so pale it approached white, tied and trimmed with fuchsia and white plaid ribbon at the hem and the edge of the arm holes and the neckline. Flat sandals and neat little gold earrings completed the look.

She was interesting, though Greg admitted to himself that half the curiosity was what this woman had which rattled his lover’s cage and left him confounded between charm and desire. Seeing her, he had to laugh: she was a bon-bon. A confection. She was everything charming about Mummy Holmes, including intelligence snapping behind eyes that blended blue and moss-agate greenish brown. She was love in sandals. She was pretty without being threatening.

Yes. He could see it. Brains, charm, kindliness, a scrape of Oedipal attraction, and that odd aura of loving kindness. As though she worked to live up to her name… Yes. That would cross Mike’s wires like nobody’s business, wouldn’t it?

Hell, it crossed his wires.

Behind her came her own beloved…

Lestrade nearly laughed out loud, memory flashing vividly. Sherlock to a T, upon having met Irene Adler.

Why the hell hadn’t Mike mentioned that they must never, never introduce this fellow to Molly Hooper? No, he and Sherlock weren’t identical, but—oh, my. Skinny as a rail, supple as a serpent, with a grim face, romantic style, and the hallmarks of a man who, like Sherlock, worked at cool and played at drama queen? And smart. Smarter than he let on…

“And you’re Crowley?”

A chin-jerk for response, and a pointed arm around the buxom armful. “Crowley, yeah. Tha’s me.”

“What do you do, Mr. Crowley?”

“M’ retired.” The wording was that of a Mafia don who’d left the business, and didn’t want to be reminded. It set Lestrade’s copper instincts wailing. But—not in a bad way. Just a curious itch. This man was not an angel.

Not a devil, either…

Or…

Lestrade frowned. Crowley read odd. So odd… Half of him wanted to scurry inside and don his MI5 approved side arm. The other said, “Crowley? Nice chap, if a bit of a twat. Loves his Angel…”

He decided to go with the second. It was too early for sidearms…

He uncoiled himself from the deck chair. “Come on in and let me make you a drink and serve dessert. You’ll get to meet Sherlock, your new neighbor.” He considered, and said, “He may drive you crazy, but if you ignore the occasional explosion and so on, he’s not a bad chap, really.”

“He’s _Sherlock Holmes,_” the plump little Angel said, bubbling with glee. “He’s _interesting._ He’s _nifty.”_

“Angel—you’ve got to update your vocabulary,” Crowley said, with doting fondness. “Really. Try ‘lit.’ Or ‘dope.’”

“Dope?” Angel was horrified. “Good heavens no, Crowley! Certainly not! He’s quite clever, considering.”

Lestrade could almost see eyes roll behind the dark-tinted glasses—and for the first time he really noticed that the man was wearing sunglasses at night…as though he were blind, or something.

He examined Crowley. Like Sherlock, he dressed to impress, and to exaggerate his already extreme appearance. Deep cherry-to-chocolate hair combed back off a high, expressive brow, then gathered back into a tight cue that curled, snake-like, over his shoulder. A pewter-grey shirt of something with sheen, with the collar unbuttoned down to his collar bones, framing a shining snake pendant that seemed to writhe in the dimple of his throat. A black waistcoat in brocade, that was odd. Off. Lestrade frowned at it, seeing but not seeing that something was out of era about it, as though it might once have been a laced Elizabethan skirted doublet altered just enough to pass. Tight jeans. Snake belt buckle. Ankle boots cut to make his feet look even longer and thinner than they were, rather like Mycroft’s beloved Italian dress shoes. Tucked under the lapels of the waistcoat, there was a supple fluttering scarf with fringe, in a red and black check that made Lestrade think of scales. Finishing it off, a single fat, chunky gold-hoop earring from which dangled a black pearl leading to a terminal gem that glowed with dark crimson flash.

Cool, or at least trying to be. Angel aimed at pretty. Crowley aimed at cool…and a bit spooky.

Lestrade considered the two. Angel, sweet and pretty and peculiarly self-assured for someone his gut told him was not a social person. Crowley, sarky and poised and brooding for someone Lestrade’s gut told him hungered for companionship.

Or maybe, he thought, the strange man had companionship—now. In his Angel.

He was letting these two walk into the house to socialize with Mycroft frippin’ Holmes and, worse, Sherlock.

He considered it.

He grinned.

He liked it when life got a bit interesting.

He bowed just a little and swept his arm wide toward the open French doors of the house.

“Say mellon, and enter,” he echoed Crowley. “Just be careful—here abide Balrogs.”

“Oh, don’t joke about things like that,” said Angel, sounding suddenly quite sincere. Her eyes, previously so shining and happy, darkened, and for the first time since he’d seen her Lestrade thought she looked…old. Worried. As though she’d lived thing he might not want to know about.“You have no idea. Really.”

“She’s got a point,” Crowley said, his hand going to her back, more in comfort and compassion than possessive claim. “Rotten things, really—it takes professionals to clear ‘em out if you get an infestation.”

As the two entered the light and the warmth of the shore house, Lestrade could only wonder what he’d invited into his family’s lives.


End file.
